The Châtelet Apprentice (13 page)

‘As bad as that?'

‘Worse. Would you believe it, he came last Friday and managed to get into an argument with that blackguard Lardin. They left me with a fine old mess!'

‘Was it wise for a man so concerned about his reputation, from what you say, to come here of an evening during Carnival?'

‘But that's just it, sweetie. Of an evening during Carnival it's quite normal to wear masks and no one should have recognised him. I don't know how all this happened. Anyway, the oddest thing about it is that … No, that's enough about that waster. Let's get down to our business instead.'

Later Nicolas would look back on this moment as his real initiation into the police. In the space of a few minutes he had in fact crossed the dividing line between an honest person with firmly fixed and clearly defined ideas of the truth and a
hard-bitten
policeman who must never lose sight of the ultimate aim of his investigation. This difficult art entails disowning others, being calculating and … setting one's scruples aside. He now understood that to make real progress along the difficult path he had chosen, he had to sacrifice everything that until then he had believed to be fine and noble. He was horrified by the realisation of what these choices meant.

He was thinking so quickly that he was not fully aware of how he wrestled with his conscience. Afterwards he never managed to retrieve his train of thought or trace the spark that had set it off. An inner yet unfamiliar voice whispered to him, telling him what he had to do. He surrendered to his impulse, leant towards La Paulet and, grasping both her hands, said to her in a sarcastic voice:

‘The oddest thing indeed, Madame, is that you know perfectly well that this meeting was not accidental, and that if Descart was there it was because he had been invited.'

Presumably in response to Nicolas's change of tone, the parrot began to squawk, while La Paulet became agitated and attempted unsuccessfully to free herself from his iron-like grip on her arms. She tossed her head and opened her scarlet mouth
as if she were unable to breathe. A fragment of white fell onto her dress and dissolved into a light cloud. In her surprise and anger, her mask had cracked and was breaking into pieces.

‘Filthy little beast. Let me go, you're hurting me! Why are you grubbing around like this? You're sneakier than the police informers! It's Descart who told you this, isn't it? I'm going to get him for this.'

‘No, it's Lardin,' Nicolas pitched in, waiting for her reaction. She looked at him in utter amazement.

‘It's not possible.'

‘And why not?'

‘Er … I don't know.'

‘Well I know something,' Nicolas let rip, ‘which is that La Paulet is worried to death, that La Paulet, thinking she was talking to one of Commissioner Camusot's henchmen, got the wrong man and blurted out a lot of significant and detailed information, enough to have the Dauphin Couronné closed down, have good old La Paulet arrested, taken to the Châtelet, where she'd be interrogated by the executioner, found guilty and, broken in body and mind, sentenced to life imprisonment at the Hôpital Général or the Grande Force. All her humming and hawing will be of no use and her protectors will disappear in a flash when they hear of her arrest. In a word, Madame, you were unfortunate enough to mistake me for someone else.'

‘But who on earth are you then?'

‘I've been sent by Monsieur de Sartine, the Lieutenant General of Police, Madame.'

Seeing La Paulet in a state of collapse, Nicolas realised that he had hooked his fish and that it might be advisable to let it
dangle a little on the end of his line. He recalled a rocky inlet at the mouth of the Vilaine, between Camoël and Arzal, where he used to go with lads of his own age to fish for salmon as they went upstream. La Paulet was caught – now he had to make her spit it all out.

‘What do you want from me, Monsieur?'

‘Come, come, I'm not as bad as all that. You gave me a very warm welcome and your kindness has not fallen on stony ground. But we need to be serious. If you want me to sort things out for you, you must make sure you're on the right side, without any shilly-shallying. That means being on the side of the strongest, the side which gives the best guarantees. In your situation that's not an offer to be sniffed at.'

The fish began to wriggle again and tried a diversionary tactic.

‘I can't help you at all. I'm just the poor, innocent victim of evil men. I've obeyed the police. Settle your scores between yourselves.'

‘I shall put that matter to one side and come back to it later. What I want to know is why and how Descart came to be here on Friday evening.'

‘I've no idea.'

‘Was he in the habit of turning up unexpectedly?'

‘I suppose so.'

The fish was gaining ground; now it had more room to swim around in, and it was thinking of snapping the line. It was time to make it feel the hook once again. He took out his guardian's watch, which had just struck eleven o'clock.

‘I'm giving you exactly three minutes to tell me, in the clearest and most accurate manner, the circumstances of Dr
Descart's visit here on Friday evening. When that time is up I'm carting you off to the Châtelet.'

‘Commissioner Lardin had invited him.'

‘Only to fight with him afterwards? That doesn't make sense.'

‘That's all I know.'

‘Or all you want to say?'

La Paulet seemed obdurate. With her closed expression and squat posture she looked like one of those pagan images on the engravings his friend Pigneau had shown him one day, as he dreamt of his future journey to the East Indies. The young man decided to pull the fish out of the water. He waved under La Paulet's nose the fragment of the letter found in the leather doublet of the unidentified body from Montfaucon. He held it in such a way that she could not see that he only had half of it.

‘Do you recognise your handwriting and your signature, Madame?'

La Paulet turned away and let out a high-pitched yell. In a fit of frenzy she started to rend her clothes. The cosy drawing room was suddenly thrown into pandemonium. The parrot flew up and bumped into the walls and the chandelier which tinkled, adding to the surrounding cacophony. The little black girl burst in, shouting too, and yelling blue murder. She was followed by the monkey who began to leap and spin around like a whirling dervish. Nicolas remained impassive, got up, grabbed one of the carafes from the drinks cabinet and, aiming at an area of tiled floor between two rugs, shattered it on the floor. His action and the noise it made stunned everybody.

La Paulet stood up. The parrot came to rest on the Cupid above the mantelpiece clock and tried to destroy a candle in a
candleholder. The monkey sought refuge under its young mistress's skirt whilst she stood still, her hands on her head and her mouth open to reveal shining white teeth. Nicolas found her face striking, but he could not pin down the fleeting thought that the sight of it suggested to him.

‘That's enough,' he said. ‘Young girl, bring me pen and paper.'

The monkey was the first to leave the room. It sprang out from under the skirt and crawled quickly along the floor into the hallway. The black girl obeyed and also went out.

‘Madame, do you recognise this sheet of paper?'

‘I've been merely an instrument for others, my dear young man,' La Paulet answered, recovering her wits. ‘Lardin asked a favour of me. The aim was to invite Descart on the pretext of meeting a new girl. Along with the note was a black cape and a velvet mask with silk trimming. I did as I was told. That's all, on La Paulet's word of honour. I beg you to believe me. I'm an honest woman, in my own way. I give to the poor and take Communion at Easter.'

‘That's more than enough for me. From now on you're under my protection. Protection free of charge. Look what you gain by this deal.'

The maidservant handed him a tray with a piece of paper, a pen and an inkwell. He wrote a few words and handed the sheet to La Paulet.

‘If you need me, or if something happens that you think I should know about, send me this unsigned message.'

She read the piece of paper on which were written these words:
‘The salmon is on the riverbank.'

‘What does it mean …?'

‘It's of no importance to you, but it means a lot to me. One last thing. Write “I acknowledge myself as being the author of the note sent to Monsieur Descart, inviting him to the Dauphin Couronné on Friday 2 February 1761.”'

The effort of forming the letters in her childish handwriting made her poke her tongue out.

‘“And I did so at the express request of Commissioner Lardin.” Sign … Thank you, Madame. This has been a very fruitful conversation.'

Nicolas left the place feeling very pleased with himself, and with a sense of having done his duty. His investigation had made considerable progress, especially as the two cases – one involving gambling and the other Lardin's disappearance – seemed connected. And he now had a very valuable witness. Camusot's machinations appeared in a new light, revealing the collusion between the two police officers. It was clear that Lardin really had fallen into a trap linked to his investigation into the world of gambling, and that he was being blackmailed. His image was considerably tarnished by these discoveries.

As to his wife, Nicolas's impressions were confirmed and he understood better why she seemed so ill at ease each time they met. If her husband really had been murdered, several hypotheses seemed plausible. Either he had been unable to face up to his debts and the threats made by his creditors had been carried out, or else Descart, after his vices had been unmasked, had taken his revenge by killing him. In that case what was Louise Lardin's role? How was she involved?

The positive aspect of all this was that Semacgus seemed in
the clear, having nothing to do with these matters, directly or indirectly, except for his passing fancy for Madame Lardin. Lastly, Nicolas now understood Monsieur de Sartine's reticence and discretion; he had been unsure of Lardin's loyalty and was concerned not to arouse Commissioner Camusot's suspicions.

Nicolas's spirits were so high that he was almost running, leaping over the piles of snow and joyfully sliding on the patches of ice. For once he was impatient to give Monsieur de Sartine a full report, already imagining his superior's surprise and satisfaction.

To get himself as quickly as possible to the Châtelet, where the Lieutenant General held his Wednesday audience, he decided to take a cab. As he was watching the street for an available carriage he heard behind him, muffled by the snow, the sound of a vehicle travelling very fast. He caught a glimpse of a coachman with his face wrapped up against the cold. He motioned to him to stop, but at twenty paces the driver whipped his horse and it broke into a gallop. The carriage was now hurtling towards him. His last conscious movement was to try to leap to one side, but the gap between him and the houses was too narrow. He was struck violently on the shoulder, thrown into the air and fell back down, hitting his head on the icy cobbles. He saw a large flash before his eyes, then he sank into unconsciousness.  

‘S
O
, Nicolas, how do you feel? You really gave me a scare!'

He tried to open his eyes, put his hand to his head and felt an enormous bump covered with a piece of taffeta behind his left ear. He was stretched out naked in a bed. A young woman in a morning gown sat on a chair next to him, and smiled at him. He pulled the sheet up to his neck and looked at her in puzzlement.

‘Don't you recognise me? It's Antoinette, your friend.'

‘Why, of course … What happened to me? I dreamt I fell off a horse.'

‘There certainly was a horse! This morning as I was going out I saw a cab try to run you over. Believe you me, someone wanted to kill you and the cabman went straight for you. You were knocked down and he didn't stop. I ran to you; you were gushing blood and you were so pale I was really frightened. I had you brought up to my room and I called a neighbour who's a barber, and he dressed the wound and bled you. He said you'd
only been knocked out. Now you're awake, and I'm very pleased.'

‘Who undressed me?'

‘What? Modest as ever! I did, and it wasn't the first time … You didn't expect me to ruin my bed with all these muddy, bloodstained clothes, did you?'

He blushed. When he first arrived in Paris Antoinette had been an occasional diversion that often made him feel guilty when thinking of Isabelle. The young woman's kindness and simplicity had charmed and touched him. She worked as a chambermaid for the wife of a President of the Parlement. She was always cheerful and discreet, and she had never expected anything from him. He felt a warm friendship for her and had given her little presents – a shawl, a bunch of flowers, a silver thimble – and sometimes in the springtime he had taken her for a meal in a
faubourg
tavern.

‘What time is it, then?'

‘The angelus has just rung at Saint-Roch.'

‘Is it as late as that? I must be off.'

He tried to get up but felt dizzy and fell back onto the bed.

‘You need a bit more rest, Nicolas.'

‘But what about your work?'

She looked away and did not reply. She shivered; the room was unheated. She got into bed and snuggled up to him. He felt very grateful to her. He discovered again her fragrance and gentleness, and he seemed to be returning to an unfinished dream. He did not see her undress and did not have the courage to refuse her. He went through the usual yet always fresh motions of love-making, but he had never felt so languid. His actions were slow and his sensations exacerbated. Before
surrendering to a pleasant torpor he experienced the happiness of this moment of peace without any sense of remorse.

Nicolas was woken by the smell of coffee. He felt refreshed, even if sharp pains still reminded him of the wound to his head. Antoinette was already dressed and she handed him a bowl of coffee and a roll. She had gone out to buy provisions early in the morning. Nicolas drew her towards him and kissed her. She freed herself, laughing.

‘Falls do you good. You weren't like this last night. More tender, more …'

He drank his coffee without answering, and gazed at her with a mixture of tenderness and embarrassment.

‘Antoinette, don't you have lodgings in the President's house any more?'

He remembered a small room and the servants' spiral staircase that he used to climb, carrying his shoes, terrified of being found out.

‘It's a long story,' the young woman replied. ‘I spent two happy years in that household. The work wasn't hard and Madame was very kind to me. But a year ago a cousin of the Master's moved in with them and began to make advances to me. To start with I laughed it off and took no notice, telling him I hadn't come to this house to get myself into trouble and that I wasn't that sort of girl. In any case he had a young, pretty wife, and he should be looking after her …'

Nicolas felt guilty at the thought that it was for him that she had thrown her virtue to the winds.

‘From then on,' she continued, ‘he never stopped chasing after me, so that one evening in March of last year, when I was leaving Madame's room and going back to my garret, he followed me, grabbed me round the waist and I fainted …'

‘Then what?'

‘He took advantage of me. A short time later my monthlies stopped. I told the President's wife everything, but she's very religious and was very bothered about it. She didn't dare tell her husband because he was so madly fond of his cousin. In the end I was thrown out of the house and onto the street. I gave birth in December and the cousin refused to help me. I gave the child to a wet nurse in Clamart. What could I do, all alone, without support and without references? Madame had refused me everything.'

‘Why didn't you tell me? What about the child? Are you sure it isn't mine?'

‘You're kind, Nicolas. I've done my calculations and I had stopped seeing you a long time before. That's why I had to make a new life. You'll find out only too soon in your job that I work for La Paulet. Now I'm called “La Satin”.'

Nicolas stood up suddenly and grabbed her by the wrists. Always analysing his own reactions, he noted that this way of imposing his will on the women he questioned was becoming a habit. Along with this ironic observation came a feeling of horror at what Antoinette had just told him. What malicious, wicked spirit was directing his life like this? Added to the coincidence of the young woman seeing his accident was the fact that she had now become an important witness in his investigation.

Quick to learn from his mistakes, he was all of a sudden annoyed with himself for not having taken his questioning of La
Paulet further. He could have checked whether the details that Semacgus had given about the evening of 2 February were accurate. His initial satisfaction with what he had done soon disappeared; it had been the work of an apprentice and he was still a beginner at this difficult job. He was too subject to impulse, though he liked to call it intuition. None of this was a substitute for good procedure …

So the girl with whom Semacgus had spent the night was Antoinette! He felt awkward and uneasy about this, but also rather ashamed of himself, and sympathetic towards his friend, whom fate had condemned to such a life.

Antoinette, looking pale and scared, had become once more the little girl that she had been not long before. Her ash-blonde hair was pinned up, revealing the delicate nape of her neck which he so loved to kiss. Her face was covered in red blotches.

‘Are you annoyed with me, Nicolas? I can tell that you despise me.'

He loosened his grip on her and stroked her cheek.

‘Antoinette, what I'm going to ask you is very important. You must promise to answer truthfully. A man's life and reputation depend on it.'

‘I promise,' said Antoinette in surprise.

‘What did you do last Friday? More precisely in the night of Friday to Saturday.'

‘La Paulet asked me to wait for a client.'

‘Did you know him?'

‘No, she just told me to look innocent and show a touch of class. It was a way of trying to get a few more coins out of him. It was a bit strange …'

‘What happened that night?'

‘The expected visitor didn't arrive and someone else came up.'

‘Did you know him?'

‘No. Why?'

‘Can you describe him?' Nicolas asked, without answering her question.

‘He was tall and ruddy-faced, an old man of about fifty, but I didn't have time to look at him properly. He handed me the token and gave me a
louis d'or,
asking me to say that we'd been together until three in the morning, and then he went away.'

‘Who saw him leave?'

‘Nobody. He went into the garden through the secret door that gamblers use when there's a police raid.'

‘What time was it?'

‘A quarter past midnight. I said nothing to anyone, not even to La Paulet. At dawn I came back here.'

‘Where are my clothes?'

‘Are you leaving already, Nicolas?'

‘I must. My clothes.'

He was burning with impatience to leave this room, where for some moments he had been stifling, in spite of the cold.

‘I brushed them this morning and mended them in places,' Antoinette said shyly.

He got out of bed to dress, then rummaged in his pockets and pulled out the token he'd found in the leather doublet. He showed it to her.

‘Do you recognise this?'

She held the object above the candlestick to examine it.

‘It's a token from the Dauphin Couronné, but not the usual one. This is the kind La Paulet gives to her friends so they can
enjoy themselves for free. Look, there's no number on the back.'

‘Did your customer's token have a number?'

‘Yes, a seven.'

‘Thank you, Antoinette. Here's some money for the wet nurse.'

He stopped, embarrassed, and took her in his arms again.

‘That's not for the night. You understand that, don't you? I wouldn't want you to think that … It's for the child.'

She smiled sweetly and patted his coat.

Once Nicolas was back out in the street, it was as if something inside him had snapped. The excitement that he had felt as he left La Paulet's was now a distant memory. He was left with the
after-effects
of recent developments and a sense of remorse that he could not really explain. He also became obsessed by the thought that Semacgus had deceived him: the surgeon would be a suspect again, and one of the most likely if it turned out that the body they'd found really was Lardin's.

Day was slow to break. The thaw was beginning and Nicolas could hardly see three steps ahead. The street was a sort of dark tunnel filled with thick fog. He groped his way forward, wading through filthy muck, bumping into pale, blurred shadows that scurried on or seemed to trudge silently past. Occasionally the layer of fog lifted to reveal the brown walls of the houses. For a considerable time he was forced to feel his way along them.

Crossing the street was a dangerous business, and after the previous day's assault Nicolas was now afraid of hearing a carriage race up behind him in another attempt to run him over. He had never thought so much about his death as he did that
morning. He had become aware of the fragility of human beings, even more than he had been in the church at Guérande during his guardian's funeral. Had his head hit the cobbles a little harder he would by now have been among those broken, bloodstained remains laid out every morning on the cold slabs of the Basse-Geôle. He would have liked to take a cab, but where would he find one in all this fleecy whiteness? He would long remember this wander through the city, which seemed to him to last an eternity. Gradually dawn made its laborious appearance. A pale light ousted the darkness from the streets. Nicolas could see faces again, and a semblance of activity started up around him with its usual shouts and calls. After getting lost several times he eventually found himself in Rue Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois and from there he made his way to the Châtelet via Rue de la Grande Boucherie and Rue
Saint-Leuffroy.

As he was walking beneath the dark porch of the building a voice called out his name. He turned round and found himself facing a sort of walking trapezium, the centre of which was formed by a man wearing a tall hat. He seemed to have folded wings on each side of his body. Nicolas recognised Jean, a fellow Breton from Pontivy, and his portable privy. Better known as ‘Tirepot', this character had become friendly with him and gave him the benefit of the observations that his job enabled him to make as he travelled the streets of the city. He was not an official police spy but he was a mine of information and anecdotes, a living chronicle of the capital. His information had often proved very useful.

Public conveniences were singularly lacking in Paris and strollers often found themselves caught out on the busy streets when the need was urgent. Short of finding a quiet spot, a difficult thing to do, or relieving themselves in a strange house with all the risks that involved, they resorted to this odd character, who under a loose-fitting, canvas gown concealed two pails suspended on a crossbar he carried on his shoulders. Tirepot had perfected the system by fixing a stool for himself down below his back, enabling him to sit down whilst his customers went about their business, thus making conversation easier.

‘Nicolas, have a seat, I've got some important things to tell you.'

‘I don't have the time. But stay around and I'll see you later.'

Jean agreed and continued his rounds. His usual shout – ‘Everyone knows what they need to do' – rang out under the arches. Nicolas went into the Châtelet. Never had this seat of law and order, sunk in its bluish, sepulchral gloom with its musty smell, seemed so sinister and so deserving of its reputation. A heavy torpor began to numb his senses; he was weary in body and soul, and yet he knew that a hard day's work lay ahead of him. He tried to pull himself together and drive away the dark thoughts that haunted him.

As he began to climb the great staircase he paid no attention to the person who stood motionless on a step, watching him go up. What happened next was swift and sudden. The shadowy figure sprang out in front of him, and at first all he noticed was the sour, stale smell of damp leather. Nicolas was thrown against the wall, his hat fell off and his head, which was still sore, hit the stone surface. His wound started bleeding again and a hand
grabbed him by the throat. He could now make out the face of his assailant, who in any case made no effort to disguise himself. It was that of a man still quite young, with a scar running right across his closely shaven head. The initial impression was of someone level-headed and kind but this picture was immediately contradicted by the implacable light in his staring eyes. He pursed his thin-lipped mouth so tightly that the whole of his face, emptied of blood and life, looked like death itself.